Smile, Though Your Heart Is Aching
by starrysummernights
Summary: Mycroft sat by himself in the gloomy, cavernous library of his family's home, watching as rain fell outside, lashing against the large windows, and calmly, quietly, unobtrusively, and above-all politely, sipped his tea.
1. Chapter 1

**This is just a quick, angsty one-shot that popped into my head today because this is my mood and it's raining. I am 99.9% certain this is a one-shot and not a new series.**

* * *

Mycroft sat by himself in the gloomy, cavernous library of his family's home, watching as rain fell outside, lashing against the large windows and calmly, quietly, unobtrusively, and above-all _politely_, sipped his tea.

Saucer in one hand, cup in the other. Bringing the cup to his lips instead of moving his head to intercept the steaming liquid. Delicate sips, no blowing or rude slurping. Kissing the bottom of the delicate china cup to its saucer so only the smallest, faintest _clck_ sounded in the silence.

Swallow, pause, repeat.

Mycroft Holmes, head of the Holmes family, the very picture of propriety, manners, intelligence, and good breeding. Model son. Doting elder brother. Excellent student. Up-and-coming government official.

Such a bright future. The sky was the limit. He'd go far.

Mycroft took another sip of his tea and resisted the urge to fling the fragile cup as hard as he could against the wall opposite him. He veritably shuddered with the effort, able to perfectly visualize how the gold and cream wallpaper would look splashed with tea, the brown, sweet liquid running in rivulets down the pristine pattern. Ruining it. Staining it. Leaving a forever reminder of his momentary lapse in decorum. He could almost hear the ringing echo as the china shattered, tinkling to the floor in irreparable pieces.

Instead, he swallowed heavily. Took another sip of tea. Turned his eyes to the window and watched the rain.

People always remarked how cold he was. Aloof and unreachable. He even had a nickname- The Ice Man- which his colleagues had tried to keep from him, but he'd found out of course. And he could see their point.

Outwardly, he was who he was supposed to be: strong, confident, in control. A Holmes, through and through.

Inwardly, he was screaming, beating at the bars of his cage like some wild thing, his chest fluttering in panic that he couldn't get out, there was no way out. There was only _this_.

What else was he supposed to do, Mycroft thought sardonically as he finished his tea and, instead of throwing it in a fit of childish pique (Sherlock did that enough for the both of them) he calmly set it aside and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, the well-known pose relaxing him as nothing else could.

Act out? Cry? Yell? To what ends? The only result would be Mummy and Sherlock either in tears or a snit and it would fall to Mycroft- _Mycroft, Mycroft, always Mycroft_- to comfort them, appease them, tell them he was sorry for his outburst and that he took it all back, that he would make it up to them somehow. He would prettily apologize and they would grudgingly grant him forgiveness, still angry at his outburst which had made each of them emerge from their self-imposed selfishness long enough to wonder- was Mycroft happy?

Once he apologized, though, they would happily retreat back to a safer place, where the only thoughts that entered their pretty, curly heads had to do with themselves and their own wants and desires.

And the real problem, the rub with the whole situation, was that it was partially Mycroft's fault both Mummy and Sherlock were like that in the first place. He knew it, and as he pondered these things in the quiet dark of a rainy afternoon, he couldn't deny it, even a little.

Mummy, who was so lost after the death of Father, whose health was poorly at the best of times, _relied_ on Mycroft. She needed him to be her rock, to be strong so she herself could fall apart and not worry.

Sherlock, who had just started uni and already hated it. Who had no friends, had never had a friend to Mycroft's knowledge, and who was so desperately _lonely_. He didn't even try and hide his new drug addiction from Mycroft. When he asked for money, for advances on his allowance, he didn't make up excuses. If Mycroft asked, Sherlock told him it was for more drugs. And smirked when he said it.

Mycroft wanted to slap the smug, arrogant look from Sherlock's face.

Instead, he gave him the requisite money and sage but unwanted advice. The former was used for Sherlock's drug of choice, the latter never made it past his eardrums. Mycroft took care of everything for Mummy, paid the bills, met with the solicitors, issued the housekeeping orders….

He worked. He slept. Swallow, pause, repeat.

This was his life.

And Mycroft was screaming inside as he calmly watched the rain.


	2. Chapter 2

Love exists. Mycroft knows it does.

It's the only way to explain the things he does and endures and suffers over for his mother and brother. The two people who mean the most to him, who seem not to care all that much for him.

* * *

The dial tone buzzes in Mycroft's ear and he waits….and waits….and waits….until Sherlock's voicemail clicks on.

Sighing bitterly, he ends the call.

* * *

"You're putting on a bit of weight." Mummy says as she and Mycroft sit and sip tea together on one of Mycroft's rare-and-getting-rarer- days off. He's driven up from London just to see her, and thus far the visit has been…horrible.

He'd known it would be. Visits with his mother are seldom anything else.

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably in his already uncomfortable chair. He knows he's been putting on weight. He could and does blame it on his job, which mostly involves sedentary desk work. The hours are long and there's little time left at the end of the day for Mycroft to hit a gym or go for a run.

He knows better, though. The reason for his weight gain cannot be solely blamed on his job.

"You'll want to watch that, darling." Mummy says sternly, eyeing Mycroft's soft middle. Mycroft shifts again, tugging self-consciously on his jacket, straightening the cuffs, adjusting his tie. He has his suits tailored so the superior lines hide any extra bulge but there's no hiding any additional girth from his mother's keen eyes.

"You'll never get a girl if you run to fat." She continues, fingering her own chin contemplatively as if checking to make sure there is no extra flesh there, no sagging to disfigure her elegant jawline. She is desperate not to show her age, to always stay fit and beautiful. It is her life's work.

There is poorly disguised disgust in her eyes as she looks at her pudgy son. Mycroft feels like a repulsive, obese slug.

"Yes, Mummy." Mycroft takes a sip of his tea, his throat all closed up and feeling funny, suddenly wishing he hadn't added the two sugars to his cup. The recollection that he has makes him want to throw up. He forces himself to swallow the hot liquid and gives his mother a wincing smile. "I'll take your advice."

"See that you do. You were never particularly handsome, Mycroft- you take after your father too much- and if you gain too much weight no one will look at you twice." Mummy takes a delicate sip of her own tea- no sugar added- and expertly turns the conversation to other subjects.

She never asks how Mycroft is. She never bothers to find out what his new flat in London is like, how his job is going. She doesn't care if he's made any friends or if there's a certain someone he may fancy.

Instead, she regales him with everything that is happening in _her_ life. Who she lunched with yesterday, what they discussed, who is sleeping with who, and how much weight they've gained since their divorce. The latest gossip at her club. The new shows she's watching or the book a famous celebrity has endorsed as simply "must read."

She tells Mycroft what's going wrong in her life and how best he, and he alone, can fix it.

Mycroft sips his tea and nods along, faking interest and making the appropriate, sympathetic noises when he is required to. He agrees with her, pacifies her, and makes promises to fix all the problems and annoyances in Mummy's life.

When Mycroft leaves, he feels so heavy.

It's a burden that has nothing to do with his weight gain.

When he finally reaches London later that night, he stops off at a local bakery near his flat and buys something gooey and chocolate, his heart tripping in his chest, something heavy and painful pressing down on his chest so it's hard to breathe.

As the man behind the counter wraps up his order in translucent paper and places the sticky buns in a pretty pink and white striped box, Mycroft remembers his mother's parting words:

"I've found you a girl, darling. She's a friend of a friend. Not very bright but _very_ pretty. Prettier than you could get on your own." She glanced meaningfully at Mycroft's middle, then smiled at him. Just a kindly mother helping her son. "I'll set the whole thing, just leave it to me. Try and lose weight before then."

He hadn't had the heart- or the nerve- to tell her he is gay. He knows what her reaction would be.

Mycroft ends up buying a few more things gooey and chocolate.

* * *

"Why are you calling me?"

"It's nice to hear from you, Sherlock-"

"Why. Are. You. Calling. Me?"

Mycroft fiddles with the calendar spread on his desk. From the way Sherlock enunciates his words- too much so- he knows the younger man is high. Mycroft's stomach twists and he feels sick with worry. "I'm concerned for you-"

"Don't be. I don't need your _concern_."

The link clicks dead and Mycroft is left listening to the static.

* * *

It had started out innocuously enough.

After a long day at work of doing his utmost best, striving for a promotion, his eyes already on his eventual goal, Mycroft stopped off on the way back to his flat for takeaway. He was tired, stressed beyond belief, and couldn't face the idea of cooking anything. Even a fried egg seemed like too much effort at that moment. So he'd got Chinese. Something fried and coated in sauce. Spicy and warm and delicious.

He'd caught a cab back to his flat and, once there, gratefully shed his suit, padding round his kitchen in pants and a simple shirt as he spooned up his meal. The steam wafted into his face and he breathed deeply, closing his eyes to savor the appealing smells.

Something in his chest had loosened, something he hadn't even known had been wound tight and straining. The first bite had been heaven, the flavors bursting on his tongue and making him moan just the tiniest bit. His body had been _flooded_ with pleasurable chemicals, inducing the weirdest high he'd ever experienced.

Mycroft had sat himself at his table and eaten the entire plate.

Afterward, he'd never felt so good. He'd actually smiled.

It quickly became a habit.

Mycroft increasingly turned to food to make himself feel better. It is easy- so, so easy- to drown his stress and worry and sadness in eating.

He knows it's not healthy. It's actually a very unhealthy, destructive, dangerous habit. The worst sort of coping mechanism that isn't solving his problems, no matter how good it makes him feel when he does it.

He gains weight. His self-esteem suffers. He keeps eating to make himself feel better.

It's a vicious, ridiculous cycle that he doesn't want to break.

It makes him happy. Nothing else does.

* * *

"How was your date, darling?" Mummy asks, smiling coldly, not really caring, her eyes flicking down Mycroft's body in a way that makes him cringe. He wishes he had stayed in London.

"It was fine, Mummy." He lies smoothly. The girl- Madison- hadn't looked up once from her mobile the entire time, even when they were in the theatre watching the ballet. At the end of the night, she'd left Mycroft without even a goodbye at her front door, closing it in his face.

He debates telling his mother he is having an affair with a much older, married man he works with, Frederick Rane, just to see her horrified surprise at being told such a salacious thing.

Of course, he doesn't. He keeps it a secret, allowing her to set him up on another date, pretending to be happy with the help.

Inside, he is screaming.

* * *

He dials Sherlock's number as he's working over late one night, the only light in his office coming from a lone lamp which burns brightly. A last beacon against the encroaching dark.

He drums his fingers as it rings, expecting the voicemail-

"Bugger off."

The line clicks dead.

"Hello to you, little brother." Mycroft mutters, tossing his mobile onto his desk. He sighs, dropping his head into his hands.

* * *

He should be stronger than this, Mycroft thinks, as he eats in the protective darkness of his sitting room. The telly is switched on, something inane and droll playing in the background. He isn't paying attention to it. He generally hates watching telly but he likes the noise.

He is desperately lonely.

Frederick is working things out with his wife. He hasn't spoken to Mycroft in four days. Mycroft avoids him when he can, but the downside to dating someone one works with is the inability to entirely evade them. They have meetings together, projects to work on, and the same hallways to traverse. Work has become a study in wretchedness.

He eats. And for a few precious moments, feels slightly better.

* * *

"Please, Mycroft. I love you. It's only you I want." Frederick begs him, his face miserable. "You're everything to me."

Mycroft wishes he hadn't told him he could come over, wishes he'd been stronger when he got Frederick's text. Wishes he'd refused him. That he didn't care.

But beneath that is the fear he can't do any better. That he should cling to what he is lucky enough to be given and not casually throw it away.

He lets Frederick stay the night. They have sex in the dark, in Mycroft's bed, Frederick mumbling how much he loves him against his skin. Mycroft is silent as the older man moves over him, soaking up the words, knowing they are lies but unable to keep himself from responding to them. He wants them to be true so badly.

It's twisted and wrong and Mycroft knows it is.

When Frederick comes, collapsing on top of him in a dead weight, Mycroft clings to him, relishing the brief, comforting weight while it lasts.

* * *

When he sees Frederick Monday, Mycroft can tell from the expression on his face he's reconciled with his wife.

He still allows him to come over after work, allows him to make love to him again.

Frederick leaves as soon as they are done, mumbling excuses about his wife and his inability to divorce her because of the kids.

Mycroft waits until he leaves and then eats an entire container of hummus and crackers to cheer himself up.

* * *

He receives the call that his brother has overdosed in the middle of a Wednesday workday. His heart lurches and Mycroft knows what true, paralyzing fear feels like.

He leaves immediately, without a care to his future career.

The mess Sherlock has got himself in to is extensive and takes considerable effort to extricate him from it.

Mycroft does his best. He is hindered because Sherlock doesn't want the help, resents Mycroft for helping him.

Mycroft does anyway, and endures his brother's censure.

* * *

"You've got fat." Sherlock sneers hatefully before he flings himself from the car and into the waiting arms of the trained medical staff of the rehab.

The comment is meant to sting, to cut deep, and it hits its mark with startling, breathtaking accuracy.


End file.
